Chapter 29
The fluorescent light of the small bathroom buzzed with a low, irritating frequency. It was a cheap fixture, casting a sickly yellow pallor over the room, but the mirror was clean.
I stared at my reflection.
Or rather, I stared at the desecration on my chest.
J Ali 3 :)
The ink was fresh, the skin around it raised and angry red. The lines were shaky, varying in depth and thickness where her hand had trembled. The heart looked like a deformed kidney bean. The smiley face—two uneven dots and a crooked curve—stared back at me with a deranged sort of joy.
I scoffed. The sound was harsh in the small, tiled space.
It was hideous. It was vandalism. If I were a piece of art, this would be the equivalent of spray-painting a mustache on the Mona Lisa.
I ran my thumb over the swollen skin. It stung. Good. The pain was a grounding mechanism.
I do not love her.
Love is an illusion. It is a chemical defect in the human brain designed to facilitate reproduction and pack bonding. It is a weakness that enemies exploit. It is the reason empires fall. I do not deal in illusions; I deal in hard assets, liquid capital, and leverage.
So why did I let her do this?
Why did I let a nineteen-year-old girl with the coordination of a drunk toddler take a needle to my skin?
Strategy, my mind supplied the answer instantly. Calculated compliance.
She was distressed. The discovery of the name on my back had caused a spike in her cortisol levels.
Stress is the enemy of fertility. A stressed vessel is a hostile environment for implantation.
If I want the heir—if I want to secure the Muratori legacy and silence the board of directors—I need the Asset to be calm. I need her to be happy.
I saw how she blushed earlier. I saw the way her pupils dilated when she straddled my lap. I saw the possessive gleam in her eyes when she marked me.
She thinks she claimed me.
I smirked at the mirror, a cold, humorless expression.
She has claimed nothing. I am the one holding the strings. I am the one who allowed the ink. I am the one who erased the past to secure the future.
I have made five of the world's most powerful criminal syndicates bow to my will.
I have negotiated treaties between warring cartels in Bogota.
I have collapsed economies in Eastern Europe with a single phone call.
I pull the strings of politicians, judges, and generals.
They dance to my tune, and they thank me for the privilege.
Controlling Aleesha Garcia should be child's play.
She doesn't even know she's part of a game. She walks through life with a blinding, terrifying level of naivety. She doesn't know she's breathing the same air as a man who has ordered executions. She thinks I am a "logistician."
I frowned, thinking about her dossier.
4.0 GPA.
How?
How does a creature who believes that placing a raincoat on a grown man inside a car is a "safety measure" achieve a perfect academic score? Did she simply memorize the data, purge it onto the exam paper, and then immediately delete the files to make room for anime plots and crochet patterns?
It is the only logical explanation. Her intelligence is performative. Her survival instinct is nonexistent.
She is a vessel. A chaotic, pink-clad, apple-scented vessel. And I will keep her happy because a happy vessel produces a healthy heir.
I turned slightly, catching a glimpse of my back in the mirror.
The skin was raw, blistered, and wrapped in a thin layer of protective film. The name was gone.
The name surfaced in my mind, dragging with it the heavy, suffocating weight of history.
I closed my eyes, letting the memory wash over me. Not to feel, but to analyze. To remember why I am the way I am.
I was nineteen. I was young, arrogant, and just beginning to grasp the reins of the underworld.
And she was... perfection.
Natalia.
Five-foot-eight. A statue come to life. She had legs that went on for days, skin like polished bronze, and dark, brunette waves that cascaded down her back. She had an angelic face—doe eyes that could melt a glacier, luscious lips that I was addicted to like a narcotic.
She was my first. My everything.
I built her a world. I gave her diamonds before she asked for them. I destroyed men who looked at her with disrespect. I carved out a piece of my soul and handed it to her, thinking that was what love required.
I remembered her laugh. I remembered the way she looked at me, with adoration that I thought was real.
Then came her twenty-fourth birthday.
I had rented out a rooftop in Milan. I had a ring in my pocket—a rare blue diamond.
I found her on the terrace.
She was in the arms of another man. A rival. A nobody. She was kissing him with the same passion she gave me.
A Muratori never gives second chances. We are taught that betrayal is a terminal disease; you cut it out before it spreads.
But when she fell to her knees, weeping, begging, swearing it was a mistake, a moment of drunkenness... I faltered.
I forgave her.
It was the single greatest strategic error of my life.
For two years, I played the fool. I believed her tears. I believed her promises. I even tattooed her name on my lower back—a brand of loyalty, a symbol that I was hers as much as she was mine.
And for two years, she cheated.
She slept with my associates. She slept with strangers. She consumed my affection and gave me lies in return. She was a black hole of need, never contented, always seeking the next thrill, the next conquest.
When I finally severed the tie, I didn't feel heartbreak. I felt... clarification.
I learned that beauty is a mask. I learned that "love" is a leverage point used by the parasitic to drain the powerful.
I opened my eyes.
The "J Ali" on my chest mocked me again.
Natalia is gone. The ink is burned away.
And now I have Aleesha.
She is the antithesis of Natalia. She is short. She is clumsy. She is painfully honest. She cannot hide a single emotion; her face is a billboard for her thoughts.
But she demanded I remove the name.
And I said yes.
I said yes not because I care about her feelings, but because saying yes creates a debt. It creates an illusion of partnership. If I give her this—this removal, this hideous scribble on my chest—she will believe I am devoted. She will trust me.
And when she trusts me, she is easier to manage.
Twist the asset, I thought coldly. Let them believe they are leading, while you guide them to the slaughter.
Or, in this case, to the nursery.
I grabbed a towel and dabbed the excess plasma from the fresh tattoo.
The plan was solid. The variable was controlled.
I turned off the buzzing light and stepped out of the bathroom.
The bedroom was warm. The storm outside battered the windowpanes, but inside, the air was still and smelled faintly of lavender and sugar.
Aleesha was sitting on the edge of the small double bed.
She was wearing pink pajamas with white clouds on them. Her hair was loose. She was swinging her legs back and forth, her heels bumping against the frame of the bed.
When she saw me, her face lit up.
"Gabby!"
She held out a plate. On it was a slice of apple pie, the crust golden and flaky, a scoop of vanilla ice cream melting on top.
"Mommy made it!" she chirped. "It's warm! Comfort food for the brave soldier who survived the needle!"
I looked at the pie. I looked at her.
"I am not a soldier," I said, walking over. "I am a logistician."
"You are a brave pincushion," she corrected.
She held the fork up, offering me a bite.
I could have taken the plate. I could have eaten it myself. But I leaned down and let her feed me.
The apples were tart, the sugar sweet. It was... adequate.
I sat down beside her on the bed. The mattress dipped, pulling us closer together.
"Is it good?" she asked, eyes shining.
"It is edible," I replied.
"That means 'delicious' in Gabriel-speak," she giggled.
She took a bite herself, humming happily. Then, the talking started. The inevitable, ceaseless stream of consciousness.
"You know," she mumbled around a mouthful of crust. "I was thinking about the red bunny. The one I gave you? Remember? Mr. Fluffles?"
I chewed slowly. Mr. Fluffles.
Yes. The crooked, terrifying red crochet rabbit she had handed me the morning after the incident in the penthouse. The night I had almost lost control. The night I had terrified her, and yet she had come back with a peace offering.
"I remember the object," I said.
"It took me forever to make him," she sighed, staring at the pie. "I restarted like, six times! His ears kept looking like legs. And his tail fell off twice. I pricked my finger so many times. But I wanted him to be perfect. For you."
She looked up at me.
"Because I wanted you to know that... even if you're scary, I'm not scared. Does that make sense?"
I looked at her.
She should be scared.
I am the man who erased a woman's name from his skin and replaced it with a smiley face just to manipulate a pregnancy. I am the man who views her as a vessel.
I refuse to end up like them. My siblings. The "fallen" pillars of the Muratori legacy.
I thought of Elias. He was forged to be the master of La Familia, to command the armies and the tech divisions with an iron fist. He had the tactical brilliance of a general.
And yet, where is he? He ran away. He abandoned his post, fleeing to the ends of the earth with his "wife," trading a global empire for a domestic fantasy in the middle of nowhere.
He chose a woman over duty. He chose obscurity over power.
And Vanessa. She was supposed to rule the Famiglia Valenti.
She was meant to control the shipping lanes and the weapons manufacturing.
But she cracked. Her entire squad was slaughtered—a failure of calculation on her part—and while she survived, because a Muratori does not die easily, she is currently "resting" somewhere in the shadows.
She let grief dismantle her ambition. She let emotion sever her from the throne.
Then there is Liam. The waste of superior intelligence.
He was designed to be my Consigliere, the only mind sharp enough to rival my own.
He could have rewritten the laws of the underworld.
Instead, he is living "peacefully" in the Alps.
Breathing fresh air. Watching the snow fall. Existing in a vacuum of irrelevance.
They are all fools. There are enemies at the gates, rivals sharpening their knives in every capital city, and my siblings are out there living with their wives and partners? They believe they are safe? They believe they can simply opt out of the war?
What kind of idiots choose happiness over survival?
I am the only one left. I am the only one who understands that you do not hold hands with a spouse; you hold a leash.
You do not run away with a lover; you secure an heir and you maintain the stronghold.
Aleesha is not my escape. She is my utility.
And unlike my siblings, I will not let a beating heart get in the way of the mission.
"It makes no sense," I said flatly. "You have poor survival instincts."
She laughed. "I know! That's why I have you!"
She set the empty plate on the nightstand.
Then, she shifted.
She scooted closer until her side was pressed against mine. She rested her head on my shoulder.
I stiffened.
My deltoid muscle contracted. My instinct was to pull away, to maintain the perimeter. Physical contact releases oxytocin. Oxytocin creates attachment. Attachment creates weakness.
But I didn't move.
I let her heavy head rest there. Her hair tickled my neck. I could feel the warmth of her body seeping through my t-shirt, right over the fresh, stinging tattoo.
Let her feel safe, the voice in my head commanded. This is part of the protocol. A stressed asset fights; a safe asset yields.
"I love your new tattoo, Gabby," she whispered, her voice sleepy. "It's my favorite."
I looked straight ahead at the wall covered in Disney posters.
"It is a scribble," I muttered.
"It's a masterpiece," she yawned.
She snuggled closer, her hand finding mine on the duvet. She interlaced our fingers.
I looked down at our hands. Hers were small, soft, unmarred by violence. Mine were large, scarred, capable of snapping necks.
I didn't squeeze back. But I didn't let go.
I sat there, listening to the rain, listening to her breathing even out as she drifted toward sleep.
I am in control.
I am the puppet master.
All I need is an heir to the Muratori clan. Once the child is born, once the line is secured, this... this charade will evolve. I will return to the shadows. She will have her nursery, her allowance, her safety.
And I will have my silence.
I closed my eyes, the smell of apple pie and Aleesha filling my lungs.
Just an heir, I repeated mentally. Nothing more.
But as her thumb brushed aimlessly against the back of my hand in her sleep, I found myself sitting very, very still, terrified that if I moved, she would stop.
Inefficient.
Totally inefficient.